A Pink Case
by Chatote
Summary: 'A Study in Pink' narrated. Pre-slash Johnlock.
1. A Soldier

The burst of an AK47. The sun's rays on his skin. The burning air coming and circling in his lungs. His comrades in arms. Pain. Shoutings. Pain. Sand. Pain.

"WATSON"

John Watson jerked upright, panting, completely awake. The war. He had to— He had to help… A few blinks chased the white fog that was clouding his vision. The outlines of a room started to appear at the corner of his eyes. A room… _His_ room, in London. His breath still ragged, John fell back on his pillow, an arm over his forehead, a hand on his belly. He could't stop the exasperated sight that escaped him as he did so.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Like he had learned to do. The air was noisily entering and exiting between his lips. Keep your thoughts away. Don't let them take you into the abyss. His jaw clenched. His breath was still ragged. The memories wouldn't leave him alone. Despite his efforts to calm down, a sob escaped. Will he ever be free? Will his torments, his demons, ever give him peace? His stomach clutched. His throat tightened. The face of all the people he had met, whether they had been fellow soldiers, civilians or even enemies flashed before his eyes. He had been home for quite a long time now, and it looked like nothing was going better. He exhaled noisily again, despaired. The small voice in his head wondered if he'll ever be all right again.

He wasn't going to sleep again this night. That was for sure. Shaking, John stood up and made his bed, military way. The usual movements made him calm down as always. It was his ritual. His way to come back to the real world after a nightmare.

Once his task down, he sat, his back straight and his hands between his knees to keep them warm — and to keep them from shaking. There was nothing else to do than wait. The night was still darkening the sky behind the pale curtains. John looked outside, longing for the days when he was still able to sleep more then three or four hours per night.

Despite the calming exercices, and even though they were less vivid then minutes before, the memories were still on the corner of his thoughts. Breath. That was the only thing that mattered. Breath until the next day comes, and repeat the same routine over and over again. Always.

The sun finally came out, and with him, the same old routine. First of all, breakfast. Nothing special. An apple and a cup of coffee or tea would usually do the trick. That's what John was having on the morning our story truly begins.

The room didn't have anything special either. It was monotonous, badly lit and poorly furnished, with only the bare minimum. A one-person bed near a small heater — probably to give an impression of companionship and to chase loneliness — a lamp, a night-table, a few books and a desk.

Nothing unordinary. Just like John, a short man in his forties no one would look at twice. Even his clothes were impersonal. A whitish sweater and black pants.

A medical walking stick in one hand, John put the apple and the medical mug with the arms of the Royal Army Medical Corps he was holding on the desk. Once comfortably seated in his chair and the stick placed aside, he opened the first drawer and took out his red laptop. He didn't spare a glance at the hidden gun beneath it.

As the website charged, John clasped his hands under his chin and tried to think. When "The Personal Blog of John Watson" finally opened, he still had no idea as to what he could write.

"How's your blog going?" John's therapist asked. Ella Thompson was a nice looking black woman, all dressed in pink and happy colours to make you feel good. Her office was confortable as well. Wide, luminous, colourful. John gulped and fidgeted with his hands, the memory of this morning's unsuccessful writing session fresh in his mind.

"Yeah, good," he answered nonetheless. He cleared his throat. "Very good," he even added with a deep breath.

"You haven't wrote a word, have you?" She wasn't oblivious, of course. John pinched his lips and looked down at her notebook to avoid answering. Though, if he was honest with himself, he was also slightly worried as to what she could be writing on it.

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'," he noticed.

"And you read my writing upside-down," she confirmed, pointing at him with her pen. "You see what I mean." John's mouth twitched. He couldn't help but play nervously with his hands as she kept taking. "John, you're a soldier. It's gonna take you a while to adjust to a civilian life and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

John believed her. Good lord, he did. But there was one tiny problem Ella wasn't seeing and yet, was at the center of everything. One problem that John had turned over and over in his during restless nights until he eventually accept it. It was just the way things was.

"Nothing happens to me," he stated.


	2. Suspicions

On the 12th of October, a secretary was working in her office. Her blond short hair, purple classy top and black skirt were exactly what you could expect to see in the office of a big firm. She was talking into a phone, a genuine smile on her red lips.

"What do you mean, there's no ruddy car?" the man on the phone was saying.

"He went to Waterloo, I'm sorry. Get a cab," she told him apologetically. She couldn't help but imagine how he was looking, walking in the station, with his greyish hair and light brown suit.

"I never get cabs," he said.

She looked behind her to make sure no one was listening. "I love you," she whispered as if he hadn't talked.

"What?" the man asked playfully.

"Get a cab," she laughed.

Unknown to her, her lover wasn't in a cab an hour later. He was perched on a window, his back to the street, taking his pills.

* * *

Mrs. Patterson was trying to maintain a public figure. She was sitting between two men — she hadn't really cared about who they were — in front of an armada of journalists. She could feel the picture of her deceased husband behind her, his stare burning her back.

"My husband was a happy man who lived life to the full. He loved his family and his work. And that he should have taken his own life in this way is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him," she read at the press conference. Her husband's secretary was in the back, tears running down her face, eyes fixed on the picture of her past lover.

* * *

It was raining like hell on the evening of the 26th of November, at night. No taxi would take the two young men who were braving the terrible weather.

"I'll be back in two minutes, mate," Jimmy told his friend after unsuccessfully hailing another cab.

"What?" Gary exclaimed from under his umbrella.

"I'm just going home, get my mum's umbrella," Jimmy explained. He turned back despite his friend's protests.

The two minutes became four. The four became eight. After what felt like an hour in the cold night, Gary decided to turn back and go home as well. Jimmy, however, was taking his pills. The next day, the newspapers announced the suicide of an eighteen years-old boy.

* * *

The 27th of January was Beth Davenport's day, and her aids knew it.

"She's still dancing," one of them said, exasperated, when his colleague came back from the dance floor. He was nonchalantly sat at the bar, from where he could watch the dance-floor.

"Yeah, if you can call it that," she answered, taking a glass of Champaign, the car keys of her boss in her hand.

It didn't stop Beth from taking her pills.

* * *

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London," Sally Donovan announced over the flashes of the journalists' cameras. Behind her, the faces of the three victims were displayed on a blue panel over an emergency phone-number. "Preliminary investigation suggests that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely ressemble those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, the three incident are now treated as linked. The investigation is on-going but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

Said detective didn't look happy about it. In fact, he looked worn-out, with new-born bags under his eyes and a not-completely buttoned shirt under his black vest. He was carefully watching the army of journalist before him, trying to plan his answers in advance.

"Detective inspector, how can suicides be linked?" asked a journalist over the other shouts. Lestrade took a deep breath. It was a battle of words. He had to appease the tension — no need for a general panic — and tell something they could believe as well.

"Well, they all took the same poison," he started. "Hum… They were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any indictions —"

"But you can't have serial suicides," the journalist interrupted.

"Well, apparently, you can," the detective fought back.

"Those three people, there's nothing that links them?" another raptor said.

"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for. There has to be one," their prey answered. As he finished his sentence, all the phones in the room beeped in unison. The journalists drew them like a soldier draw his gun.

 _Wrong!_

"If you've all got text, please ignore them," said Agent Donovan as she read the word herself.

"It just says 'wrong'," the first journalist objected. Detective-Inspector gulped and looked down, as if he knew exactly who was behind it.

"Yes, well, just ignore them," the agent repeated, clearly fed up with the situation. "Okay, if there's no more questions for Detective-Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to put the session to an end."

"If there's suicides, why are you investigating?" asked another journalist, searching for a good line he could put in his article. Detective Lestrade took a few more seconds to answer.

"As I said, this suicides are clearly linked," he said carefully. "Hum… But it's an unusual situation, we got out best people investigating —" The same round of beeps cut him. The same word appeared on the phones.

 _Wrong!_

"It says 'wrong' again." Detective Lestrade looked nervously at his colleague.

"One more question," Agent Donovan announced. They couldn't afford more and risk bad press.

"Is there any chance that these are murders? And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?" Lestrade couldn't stop the small smirk that curved his lips.

"I know you like writing about this, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, hum… The poison was _clearly_ self-administred," he answered calmly.

"Yes, but if they _are_ murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" the journalist insisted.

"Well, don't commit suicide," was the detective's answer. The journalist didn't look appeased or amused at all.

"Daily mail," Agent Donovan reminded him under her breath. This paper wasn' t to be made fun of.

He sighed. "Obviously, this is a frightening time for people," he spoke again, "but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we wanna be." For the third time, the phones beeped and contradicted him.

 _Wrong!_

However, this time, Detective Lestrade had a special one.

 _You know where to find me._

 _SH._

He sighed before putting his phone away in his pocket. Of course. "Thank you," he said lowly and left the conference room.

"You've got to stop him from doing that," Donovan told him once they were back in their office. "It makes us look like idiots."

"If you can tell me how he does it, I'll stop him." Lestrade slurred. He already had had this conversation with her a thousand times. He didn't change that he needed the man, and he knew it.


	3. First meeting

It was a nice day. The sky was almost clear from clouds and the weather was as good as you could expect in London at this time of the year. John Watson was walking in Russel Square Park, a walking stick in his right hand to support his leg, clicking rhythmically on the pavement.

"John?" a man exclaimed but John didn't seem to have heard him. "John Watson?"

John turned around, surprised. Who could possibly be calling him? A chubby man with brown hair, glasses, a beige coat and a hideous multicoloured tie, apparently. The man put his brown suitcase and newspaper in one hand to present himself.

"Stamford," he said. "Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

"Yes, sorry, yes. Mike. Hello, hi, " John said uncomfortably as they shook hands, finally remembering the man. He had lost the habit of casual conversation.

"Yes, I know, I got fat," Mike joked with a bi g smile. "I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

"I got shot," John stated. Bad sleeping patterns weren't doing any good to his social skills.

* * *

"Are you still at Bart's then?" John asked once they were both seated on a bench, coffee in hand. His question seemed to ease the tension he had created before. Mike nodded.

"Teaching now. Bright young things that we used to be. God I hate them," he said, making both of them laugh. John massaged his leg. "What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get sorted?"

"Can't afford London on an army pension," John said without looking at his friend.

"And you couldn't bare to be anywhere else," Mike deduced without loosing his smile. "That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson…" John muttered, still avoiding to look at his friend and clenching his fist on his leg. That was the reason why he had avoided most of his past friends since his return. He wasn't the person they knew, like he had just said, and he wasn't ready to be that person again. Sadly, it was only making him even more isolated. There were days when he wouldn't talk at all.

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike wondered with a sight. John snorted.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

"I don't know… Get a flatshare or something?" Mike thought out loud. This made John chuckle a bit. He rose his eyes and looked at the other man.

"Come one, who would want me for a flatmate?" It was Mike's turn to chuckle. "What?" John asked, offended.

"You're the second person to say that to me today," Mike answered.

"Who was the first?"

* * *

A young man, probably in his thirties, was standing in the mortuary at Bart's. His black curly hair, dark scarf and long black coat were contrasting with his pale skin and blue eyes.

He opened the mortuary bag on the table before him and sniffed. "How fresh?" he asked with a deep voice.

"Just in," a woman answered, walking around him. There was just the two of them in the room. "Sixty-seven, natural causes. Used to work here. I knew him! He was nice." She was younger than the man, but not much. Her brown hair was fastened in a ponytail and she was wearing a white blouse over her clothes.

"Fine. We'll start with the ridding crop," the man said with a smile.

The next minutes were spent hitting the body at different angles. The woman was looking at him from the corridor, grimacing each time the crop hit the body.

"So, bad day, was it?" she asked with a small forced laugh a while later, once he had finished with his experiment.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," the man said, ignoring her and writing into a note-book. "A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

She gulped and danced on her feet, unsure of her next move. "Listen, I was wondering," she eventually started. The man took a deep breath at her words, as if he already knew what was coming. "Maybe later, when you're finished—" He rose his head, barely hiding his exasperation, and his eyes met her face.

"You're wearing lipstick," he cut her with a frown. "You weren't wearing lipstick before." The woman looked pleased with herself.

"I refreshed it a bit," she explained while trying not to smile too brightly. He looked at her a few more seconds and went back to his notes.

"Sorry, you were saying?" he said, leaving the lipstick subject behind.

"I was wondering if you wanted to have coffee," she continued with a renewed confidence.

"Black, two sugars please, I'll be upstairs," he answered with a nod.

"Okay," she whispered with a small voice once he had left the room. Her plan had poorly failed.

* * *

The same tall man was in what looked like a laboratory. He had taken off his coat and scarf but didn't have any white blouse while manipulating the instruments with extreme precision. Someone knocked on the door. He didn't answer.

Mike Stamford entered, followed by John Watson. The man glanced at them before going back to his experiments.

"Well, bit different from my day," John said as he looked around. The room was full of electronic devices and scientific material such as microscopes.

"You have no idea," Mike chuckled.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," the man asked, not sparing another look at the new comers.

"What's wrong with the landline?" said Mike.

"I prefer to text," he answered.

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

John, who had stayed silent during the exchange, chose to be useful. "Er, here, use mine," he told the stranger, taking it out of his pocket.

"Oh," the man said. He looked at Mike quickly, as if wasn't sure whether John had really said that. "Thank you." He stood up and walked toward John.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike explained. John gave a fake smile as he handed his phone to the complete stranger. Said stranger took it swiftly and started to write.

"Afghanistan or Irak?" he asked without looking away from the phone, bringing a smug look on Mike's face.

John must have had misheard. "I'm sorry?" he said with a frown.

"Which one was it, Afghanistan or Irak?" the man repeated. He turned his grey-blue eyes to look at John. It had to be a joke. It was John's turn to glance at Mike as if to be sure that he wasn't dreaming. Mike, who was still smiling.

"Afghanistan," he finally answered, but the stranger was looking at the phone again. "Sorry, how did you—"

"Ah, Molly!" John was interrupted by the lady's entrance. She had a cup of coffee in her hand. "Coffee, thank you," the man continued. He gave the phone back to John, who made a face at being ignored but stayed silent — the army did have had a great impact on John's control over himself — and grasped Molly's coffee. "What happened to the lipstick?" he asked, a little disturbed.

"It wasn't working for me," Molly answered, embarrassed.

"Really? I thought it was a good improvement. Your mouth is too… small now," the man said without any tact, moving his hands as he talked. He walked back to the computer and took a sip from the cup.

"Okay," Molly squirted before exiting. The man didn't pay any attention to her.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked. Mike had his smug look again. John didn't like it.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked once he had understood the question was directed to him.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes, I don't talk for days on and… Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should now the worst about each other." John wasn't understanding anything.

"Oh you… You told him about me?" he asked Mike who was playing with a tube of blood.

"Not a word," Mike assured.

"Than who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did," the stranger answered while putting his coat on. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now, here he is, after lunch, with an old friend clearly home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap," he concluded, his hands elegantly wrapping a blue scarf around his neck.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John said, his paranoïa kicking in.

"Got my eyes on a nice little place in Central London," the stranger said, ignoring John again and collecting his stuff. "Together we should be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. I'm sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." John blinked. Had he really said that? Was it really happening?

"Is that it?" he exclaimed just before his apparently future flatmate disappeared.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat," John said.

"Problem?" John smiled in disbelief. This man was surely kidding. But why wasn't Mike at least smiling too? Surely, this man couldn't be serious.

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name," John explained nonetheless. The stranger lowered his head in a way that could look dangerous on someone less and looked at John straight in the eyes.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he is an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out of his wife and I know that your therapist thinks your limps is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid." At this poing, John fidgeted, embarrassed. His jaw clenched, his lips were pinched. "It's enough to begin with, don't you think?"

His tirade finished, he walked to the door. Despite the amount of things this tall, mysterious man knew about him, John didn't panic. He was more… intrigued than afraid.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," the man added with a wink before disappearing into the corridor. "Afternoon."

John looked at Mike, at a lost of word. "Yes, he is always like that."


	4. 221B Baker Street

Later that night, when John went back home — _home_ was a big word — and sat on his bed, his mind went back to the strange meeting he had had earlier. Sherlock Holmes… Without realising it, he had taken his phone out of his pocket and was looking at the last message sent.

 _If brother has green ladder, arrest brother._

 _SH_

What could he mean? Was Sherlock Holmes a police officer? The man certainly didn't look like it. John's laptop was still on the desk where he had left it this morning. Decided to discover more, John started to search. What could he learn about the mysterious man that was Sherlock Holmes before tomorrow, seven o'clock?

* * *

In another part of London, far away from John's room, a woman was taking her pills.

* * *

John arrived at 221B Baker Street at seven o'clock precisely. It was in a nice little district. A small restaurants, _Speedy's,_ was next to the flat's door.

John had put some efforts in his clothes today. He was wearing a beige jumper under his black leather jacket. He knocked three times on the front door.

"Hello," he heard Sherlock Holmes say behind him. The man was wearing the same coat and scarf has yesterday. He turned to the cab and handed some money to the driver.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," John said.

"Sherlock, please," he said as they shook hands.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive," said John, looking at the flat and the buildings around them.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal," Sherlock explained, hands clasped behind his back. "Owes me a favour. Few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her." He was looking at something behind John.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John asked. He wasn't buying it.

"Oh no, I ensured it," Sherlock corrected him. Before John could add anything, the door opened and a small woman exited. As she and Sherlock hugged and greeted each other, John looked around, searching for a camera, not entirely sure that this wasn't an immense joke.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson." Hearing Sherlock say his name, John turned back to the lady. She was in her sixties, he'd said, and was wearing a purple dress. She had a big smile on her face as they exchange niceties.

"Come in, come in," she finally said.

"Shall we?" Sherlock said as they all entered. John couldn't help to check the street for threat before going in. Military training.

Apparently, the flat was upstair. John wasn't surprised but climbing was slightly harder with his limp. Sherlock was much faster than him. Once John had finally reached the top of the stairs, he opened the door on a bright, messy flat. John took his time to look around.

Sherlock took off his gloves and waited for the man's reaction. This flat meant a lot to him. It meant freedom. It meant autonomy and independence from… Well, it really wasn't the time for this sort of things.

The living room was big enough. A table was covered by boxes and papers and overhung by what looked like a bull's skull fixed on the wall. Two red curtains were surrounding the large window that was giving on the street. The bookcases around the fireplace were already full of books. The kitchen was small but functional, even though the table was, here too, covered with scientific instruments.

"Well, this could be very nice," John said. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out," John said simultaneously. "Oh…" He looked at Sherlock who had frozen next to him. The younger man immediately started to tidy up a bit. "So this is all…" John started.

"Well, obviously, I can…hum…" Sherlock coughed. " Straighten things up… a bit." As he was talking, he planted his mails on the fireplace with an army knife. Next to it, a bat and what looked like a collection of insects was standing in a frame and a …

"It's a skull," John pointed at the small crane with his stick.

"Friend of mine," Sherlock said. He realised what he had said a second too late. "When I say 'friend'…" It seems that the man couldn't stay immobile for less than a minutes. He was now walking around the room and taking of his coat and scarf. His black suit was making him look even taller and slimmer than he already was.

"What do you think then, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked him, a cup of tea in her hand. "There's another room upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." She had a small knowing smile on her lips.

"Of course we'll be needing two…" John couldn't believe he had to say it out loud. This day was definitely incredible.

"Oh, don't worry. There's all sort around here," Mrs. Hudson tried to reassure him. "Mrs. Turner, next doors, got married ones," she whispered before going to the kitchen. John moved his eyes to Sherlock who was busy moving books and other stuff. What did he tell Mrs. Hudson about John? Or was it frequent for him to bring man in here? Somehow, John doubted it.

"Sherlock, the mess you've made," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed at the sight of it. Sherlock looked up innocently and didn't replied. John let himself fall on the armchair with a sight. His eyes felt on his new roommate who was now turning on his small laptop.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," he said. This rose Sherlock's attention. He stopped his activity to look at him, hands in his trouser's pockets, trying to look uninterested.

"Anything interesting?" he asked casually.

"Found your website," John answered. "The Science of Deduction." Sherlock's lips curved upward and he moved excitedly.

"What did you think?," he asked. The look John gave him made his pleased smile turn into a frown.

"You say you can identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left-thumb." Although it wasn't a question, John knew it sounded like it.

"Yes," Sherlock said deeply and in all seriousness. "And I can read your military career on your face and your led and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone." John couldn't believe it.

"How?" Sherlock didn't answered and turned to the window. He apparently really liked to be mysterious. Drama queen.

"What about all these suicides then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson said when she came back, a worried look on her face and the latest news-paper in her hands. "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three, exactly the same."

"Four," Sherlock corrected her. He was looking intensely at something in the street. "There's been a fourth. There's something different this time."

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson repeated. Sherlock turned just in time to see Detective-Inspector Lestrade climbing the stairs two-by-two. His long black coat flying around him.

"Where?" Sherlock asked before the policeman could even open his mouth.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," Lestrade answered. He didn't asked how Sherlock knew for the new suicide, John noticed.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different," Sherlock said without breathing. After all the texts he had sent Lestrade to be put on the case, there had to be something new. Something that had changed everything.

"You know how they never leave notes?" Lestrade said.

"Yeah."

"This one did." Interesting… "Will you come?"

Sherlock squinted. "Whose on forensics?" he asked.

"It's Anderson," Lestrade answered almost apologetically.

"Anderson won't work with me," Sherlock stated. John looked between the two men, wondering what the bloody hell was happening.

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I _need_ an assistant," Sherlock riposted like a petulant child.

"Will you come?" Lestrade repeated. He was in a hurry, after all.

"Not in the police car. I'll be right behind," Sherlock agreed. He was making it look like he was according a favour to the detective-inspector. The later one left with a "Thank you" and a nod toward Mrs. Hudson and John who still had no idea as for what was going on. Sherlock waited for the Detective to have left the flat before exploding with joy.

"Brillant!" he exclaimed with a small jump, his fists in the air. He was dancing around the tables, boxes and seats. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicide and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late, might need some food." He had already his coat on and had simply put his scarf around his neck instead of wrapping it around.

"I'm your landlady, dear. Not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson objected.

"Something cold will do," Sherlock continued as if she hadn't breathed a word. "John, take a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" And just like this, he was gone and with him all the vibrant energy that had filled the room.

"Look at him, dashing about!" Mrs. Hudson said, still standing next to John's armchair. As for John, he had a blank look on his face, as if Sherlock's depart had left him lifeless. "My husband was just the same, but you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell. You rest your leg."

"DAMN MY LEG!" John shouted in a moment of pure rage against his bloody limb and the lack of action in his life, especially after having a glimpse at the one Sherlock Holmes was living, making Mrs. Hudson jump three meters hight. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes, this bloody thing," John apologised instantly. He taped his damaged limb with the medical stick.

"I understand, dear. I've got a hip."

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," John spoke again. He took the newspaper on the arm of his chair perhaps a bit more brutally than what was necessary.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you got them."

"Not you housekeeper," reminded him before leaving for her own apartment. John wasn't listening to her, though. The paper in his hands was displaying a photo of Detective-Inspector Lestrade next to a woman who surely was one of the thre— four victims.

"You are a doctor," a deep voice said. John looked up. Sherlock's long frame was blocking the way to the stairs. He was putting his black gloves on, his eyes lost on the carpet. "In fact, you're an _army_ doctor," he corrected himself, turning his eyes to John.

"Yes," John confirmed. He used his stick to help him stand up and walked to his new… flatmate.

"Any good?" Well, John wasn't one for self-compliments but he had to be honest. And he probably wanted to impress this man too. This man who knew everything about him in less then thirty seconds.

"Very good." You could hear a fly.

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths."

"Yes," John nodded. He was captivated by the blue eyes of the man who was now walking toward him. He had questions, lots of questions, but they wouldn't give any answer.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a life time. Far too much," John said. He didn't know if he was answering a question or trying to convince himself of the answer. Those blue eyes could see right through him.

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh god, yes." The second it was, then. Sherlock spun around rushed downstairs, John close behind.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he shouted. "I'll skip the tea. Off out."

"Both of you?" she said in surprise. Sherlock stopped on his way out and looked at her. He was still vibrating with energy.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no poing in sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He planted a kiss on Mrs. Hudson's cheek with a loud 'Mouah'.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," she said, trying to hide her smile.

"Who cares about decent? The Game, Mrs. Hudson, is on."


	5. Deductions

They hailed a taxi and where off to the crime scene. Outside, the night had fallen. Next to John, Sherlock was typing on his phone. John was trying to discretely look at the screen.

"Okay, you've got questions," Sherlock finally said with a sight. Not so discreet then.

"Yeah, where are we going?" John said, choosing to start with the most urgent ones.

"Crime scene, next?" Sherlock answered as if it was obvious.

"Who are you? What do you do?" Those where the question John _really_ wanted to ask. Sherlock had now the hint of a smirk on his face.

"What do you think?"

"I'd say… Private detective," John tried.

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives." It was definitely a smirk.

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock explained. "The only one in the world. I invented the job." So much for modesty.

"What does it mean?" John asked, still a bit lost.

"Means when the police are out of there depth, which is always, they consult me." He had to be kidding.

"The police don't consult amateurs," John half-laughed.

From the look on Sherlock's face, he was used to those kind of reactions. He was also used to make these reactions fade away quite quickly. "When I met you for the first time at Bart's yesterday, I said 'Afghanistan or Irak'. You looked surprised," he started.

"Yes, how did you know?" John wondered.

"I didn't know, I _saw_. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq." John couldn't believe it.

"You said I have a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limps, of course you have a therapist," Unable to stop himself, he kept going. "Then there's your brother." John rose his head. "Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving?" John guessed. There was indeed, two names on the back of the phone.

 _Harry Watson_

 _From Clara_

 _xxx_

"Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone," Sherlock confirmed. "Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then, six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking." His words were following one another with barely any pause to breath.

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John said. He was baffled by Sherlock's skills.

"Shot in the dark," Sherlock said, pleased with himself. "Good one, though. Power connection, tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see, you were right. " Sherlock handed back the phone.

" _I_ was right?" John repeated. "Right about what?" After what he had just listened, he doubted having ever been right about something in his life.

"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock was looking outside now, rather than at John, and his smirk was nowhere to be seen. He knew what was coming. He'll probably have to search for a new roommate tomorrow. A bird killed before even having a chance to fly. He pinched his lips to keep control over his emotions. What difference would it make if someone else called him 'freak'?

"That," John said slowly, "was amazing." Sherlock must have misheard. The words were so unexpected it took them a while to form a coherent sentence in his mind.

"Do you think so?" He needed to be sure.

"Of course, it was," John assured, still taking everything in. "It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock remarked, a little embarrassed.

"What do people normally say?" John inquired.

"Piss off." And as their first common cab-trip came to an end, they both had a smile on their lips. John was genuinely smiling. It was, by far, the best day he ever had since— God, he couldn't even remember. As for Sherlock, his 'what-can-you-do' smile had morphed into a smaller, truer one. A smile for the days that could possibly come.


	6. The Pink Lady

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock wondered once they had arrived. He closed his coat around himself.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce, and Harry is a drinker," John said as they walked toward the police cars that were lighting the dark night.

"Spot on then. I didn't expect to be right about everything," Sherlock said a little surprised.

"And Harry is short for Harriet," John continued, making Sherlock stop. "Look, what exactly I'm I supposed to be doing here?"

"Harry is your sister. You're _sister_ ," Sherlock hissed behind him, exasperated.

"No seriously, what am I supposed to be doing here?" John repeated. It was a completely new environment for him.

"Always something," Sherlock answered. He walked past John to the police tape.

"Hello, freak," a young black woman dressed in a light brown coat and a black skirt called him.

"I'm here to see Detective Lestrade," Sherlock announced, not the least disturbed by the insult. He was used to it.

"Why?" the woman asked.

"I was invited," Sherlock said slowly. He knew she knew he was.

"Why?" she repeated annoyingly.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock answered again, sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" she continued, looking at him with disdain.

"Always Sally," Sherlock said. He lifted the tape and passed on the other side of it. Once next to Sally, he sniffed and made a face. "You didn't made it home last night."

"I don't…" She didn't finished her sentence as John made an attempt to cross the tape as well. "Who's this?" she stopped him.

"A colleague of mine, Doctor Watson," Sherlock said. "Doctor Watson, Sergent Sally Donovan. An old friend." By the way the two were talking to each other, they were, obviously, not friends at all. Sally made a face.

"A colleague?" she said, not buying it. Sherlock was slowly being fed up with her antics. "How do you get a colleague? Wait, did he follow you home?" she asked John, only half-jokingly. The poor guy frowned and looked out of place. Why would Sally Donovan act like this toward Sherlock?

"Would it be better if I just waited and…"

"No," Sherlock said, lifting the tape high over his head. John walked under it after throwing a glance at Donovan.

"Freak's here. Bringing him in," she announced in her talky-walky. As they walked toward the house where officers were going in and out, Sherlock looked around him and started to gather datas. To John, who didn't know what the younger man was doing, he looked like a lost puppy.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock exclaimed when he saw a tall white man in a blue coverall walking toward them from the house. "Here we are again." So that was the Anderson Sherlock was talking about earlier. The one who wouldn't work with him, John remembered.

"It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated," Anderson said aggressively. "Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear," Sherlock said. "And is your wife away for long?" he continued after a few seconds. The tone of his voice made John think he was onto something.

"How don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that." John frowned. He had met Sherlock only the day before and already had a fairly good idea of what he was capable of. Which game were all those people playing?

"Your deodorant told me that," Sherlock said, his eyes jumping from one spot to another, trying to take in as many details as possible.

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men," Sherlock explained, rising his eyebrows and making a face at Anderson. Anderson wasn't following him if his expression was anything to go by.

"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" he said with an offended voice.

"And so does Sergent Donovan." Anderson spun on his heels to look at the woman who shrugged in response. John couldn't help the smile nor the chuckle that escaped his lips. Sherlock sniffed again.

"Ooh, and I think he just vaporised," he said. "May I go in?" He was tired of those little discussion. A dead body was desperately waiting for him inside.

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply," Anderson said worriedly.

"I'm not implying anything," Sherlock said as he started to walk toward the door. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over. And I assumed she scrapped your floor going by the state of her knees." He pointedly looked at the Sergent's legs and then back at Anderson whose face was now colourless. Sherlock's smirk was back when he finally entered. John didn't breath a word when he passed before the sergent.

The house was… dilapidating. John couldn't see why anyone would want to come here. The doors were hanging on their hinges, the windows were filthy and he half-expected the stair to collapse under his feet.

"You need to wear one of these," Sherlock told him once they arrived in the room the policemen had placed their material, pointing at the same kind of coverall Anderson was wearing. Detective-Inspector Lestrade was here, among other officers, putting his own coverall on.

"Who's this?" he asked Sherlock. Apparently, he hadn't paid any attention to John back at Baker Street.

"He's with me," Sherlock answered while taking his gloves off.

"But who is he?" Lestrade insisted.

"I said he's with me," Sherlock repeated, grabbing a pair of latex gloves.

"Aren't you going to put one on?" John asked Sherlock, surprised not to see him taking off his coat. The look he received made him feel like the worst idiot on this goddamn planet.

"So where are we?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

"Upstairs."

Once ready, the three of them headed to the black staircase that was leading to the upper-floors.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade said. He knew it was far enough for the man behind him, no matter what he was about to say.

"Might need longer," Sherlock answered.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards," Lestrade continued. "We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

The room they entered on the second floor was empty safe for the woman lying face down on the floor. At the sight of her, John's face filled with sadness. The memories weren't far away. She was wearing a pink coat assorted to her high-heel pink shoes. Her pink-varnished hands had been placed on each side of her head. Her blond hair was covering her face.

"Shut up," Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, breaking the silence.

"I didn't say anything," Lestrade said in surprise.

"You were thinking. It's annoying." Lestrade looked at John, startled.

Sherlock took a few steps closer, his eyes never leaving the body and what was around it. _Rache_ was engraved next to her head. Her varnish was damaged. Her doing then. Left-handed. _Rache_ … German for revenge. No signification here. _Rache_ … Rachel. Once that over, Sherlock kneeled. Her coat was wet. She had been in a rainy place then. Yet, her umbrella was dry. Strong wind. Safe for the wedding ring, all are jewellery from necklace to earrings were clean. Sad wedding. More then 10 years. The inside was clean. Often removed. Serial adulterer. Sherlock smiled in satisfaction.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked less than a minute after Sherlock had started.

"Not much," Sherlock answered. He removed his latex-gloves and started to search something on his phone.

"She's german," said Anderson from the corridor. He leaned on the door's frame, looking all superior. "Rache," he explained to John and Lestrade, pointing at the word, "german for revenge. She could have been trying to tell us something —"

"Yes, thank you for your input," Sherlock cut him and slammed the door, eyes fixed on his phone .

"So she's german?" Lestrade asked him.

"Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning back to Cardiff. " The consulting detective then smiled smugly at his phone. "So far, so obvious."

"Sorry, obvious?" John said. What the bloody hell was obvious here?

"What about the message though?" Lestrade asked at the same time. Sherlock ignored him and looked at John.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" John asked, unsure.

"Of the body," Sherlock corrected him. "You're a medical man."

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside," Lestrade protested.

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here…"

"Yes, because you need me," Sherlock retorted. John looked at Lestrade, wondering how he was going to react after seeing his colleagues behaviour around Sherlock.

"Yes, I do," Lestrade admitted with a defeated voice. "God help me."

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock called John. The doctor looked at Lestrade for autorisation.

"Oh, do as he says," the detective told him. "Help yourself." He then made sure to keep everyone out a while longer.

Inside the room, Sherlock and John were kneeling on each side of the body. John put his stick aside and looked at Sherlock. He had been pleased with the animation in his life but there was a dead body at his feet. He hadn't think about it, back at the flat. Just about how much better is life had been since he had met Sherlock Holmes, 24 hours earlier, and how he didn't want it to stop.

"What I'm I doing here?" he asked.

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock whispered.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent.

"Yeah, but this is more fun."

"Fun?" Had he really said _fun_? "There's a woman lying dead," he pointed out in case the genius before him had forgotten.

"Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you'd go deeper," Sherlock answered. John gave in and started his examination as Lestrade came back. Sherlock was rubbing his hands with a small pout. He didn't like waiting.

John smelled the air next to the victim and looked at her skin. 'Yeah, asphyxiation, probably," he concluded. Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged a look. "Passed out, choke on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure, possibly a drug."

"You know what it was," Sherlock stopped him. "You've read the paper."

"What, she's one of the suicides? The fourth…" Sherlock's sharp eyes on him didn't ease his discomfort.

"Sherlock, two minutes I said," Lestrade called out. I need everything you've got." The young man stood up. John did so as well but with difficulty.

"Victim is in her late thirties," Sherlock started. "Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Her suitcase?" Lestrade repeated.

"Suitcase, yes," Sherlock said, pacing in the room and looking for what he could have missed. "Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, are you just making this up?" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Her wedding ring," Sherlock said. He went back next to the body and pointed at the clues. "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who _does_ she remove her rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"It's brilliant!" The words had escaped John's mouth before he could refrain them. Sherlock looked surprised. "I'm sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me," John said, confused. Sherlock looked at the two of them.

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring. Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, _strong_ wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He took out his phone and showed it to the two other men. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic!" John had the impression of being on the front line of the biggest show in town. _Yes_ , he knew this show implicated four dead bodies. But Sherlock was truly amazing.

"Do you know you do that out-loud?" Sherlock asked John lowly. No one had ever praised his talents, nonetheless that much, before.

"Sorry, I'll shut up."

"No, it's… Fine." It was. Fine and… Pleasant. He hadn't expected John to be like that but the compliments were welcomed. It was completely knew for Sherlock. It was…interesting. How he had felt when John had compliment him. Three times. In one afternoon.

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade interrupted his trail of thoughts.

"Yes, where is it?" Sherlock spun in a circle, looking for the pink box. "She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" Lestrade asked.

"No, she was writing an angry note in german," Sherlock answered sarcastically. "Of course, she was writing Rachel. No other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was _dying_ to write it?"

"So, how do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade wasn't letting this go. Sherlock pointed at the body.

"Back of the right leg, tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night. Now where is it? What have you done with it?" He crouched to look closer at the body.

"There wasn't a case." Sherlock rose his head slowly, his mind racing and examining the new information under every corner.

"Say that again."

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade repeated. "There was never any suitcase." Sherlock rushed outdoor, in the corridor.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase?" he shouted. "Was there any suitcase in this house?"

"Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade repeated for the god-knows how many times. Sherlock looked at him from half-way down the stairs.

"But they take the poison themselves," he said, miming the act and started to rush downstairs again. "They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them." He passed before a group of scientists among whom was Anderson.

"Right, yeah, thanks. And?" Lestrade called him.

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings. _Serial_ killings," Sherlock announced and clasped his hands. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I _love_ those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked before Sherlock disappeared completely downstairs.

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." He paused. When he spoke again, his voice was lowered. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have… checked into a hotel, left her case there," John proposed from the second flour.

"No, she never got to the hotel," Sherlock responded. "Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking— Oh. Oh!" His eyes widened. A smile formed in his lips.

"Sherlock?" John called him. He was truly interested by all this.

"What is it? What?" Lestrade asked, bending over the handrail.

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake," Sherlock said.

"We can't just _wait_ ," Lestrade protested.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Sherlock assured him. "Look at her, really _look_! Houston, we _have_ a mistake. Get on to Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" On those last words, he disappeared at the stair's feet.

"Of course, yeah, but what mistake?" Lestrade shouted. Sherlock reappeared just long enough to give his answer.

"Pink!"

Him definitely gone, Lestrade and his team went back to work. John, left alone, went downstairs. He took off his coverall and, after what felt like far too long, breathed the fresh air of the London night.

There was significantly less people in the street. John looked around for Sherlock but he was no-where to be seen. Sergent Donovan was still at her post, neat the police tape. John headed toward her.

"He's gone," she said as soon as she saw him.

"Who? Sherlock Holmes," John said, trying to maintain the appearance that he wasn't yet addicted to the man.

"Yes," she confirmed. "He just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?" Even though he asked, John doubted it. The world looked dull again around him. Empty of life without the powerful presence that was Sherlock Holmes.

"Didn't look like it." John nodded. He didn't like how she was looking at him and he especially didn't like not knowing where he was with no way to go home whatsoever.

"Right…" he muttered. "Yes… I'm sorry, where I'm I?" Donovan, who was talking to another agent, looked at him again.

"Brixton."

"Right. Er, d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er …Well, my leg."

"Er, try the main road," Sally answered, lifting the tape for him.

"Thanks," John said as he walked past her, ready to leave.

"But you're not his friend." John stopped. "He doesn't have friends." John turned and looked at her. "So who are you?" She looking smugly at him, so sure of herself. In other circumstances, John would probably have defended Sherlock, even if they had only met a few hours ago. He didn't like Donovan. But now, at this moment, he was lost and confused, and after the day he just had, he didn't find the energy to do so.

"I'm… I'm… nobody," ha answered. "I've just met him."

"Okay, bit of advice then, stay away from that guy," she told him.

"Why?" John said harshly. After all he had seen, Sherlock wasn't the bad guy here. Beside, he had brought John what to life. God, was he _really_ thinking like this?

"You know why he's here?" she asked. John didn't answer. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!" Lestrade called from the entrance.

"Coming!" she answered. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes" were her last words to the doctor. John shook his head to get his thoughts back together and started to walk away, unsure of what he was about to do. There was one thing he knew though. There was very little chances that he'll stay away from Sherlock Holmes.


	7. Ennemies

John hadn't gone far — two meters max — when the public phone box started to ring. He didn't pay attention to it. A look at his watch made him sight. He wasn't going to sleep a lot tonight. As soon as he walked past it, the phone stopped ringing.

The main street was crowded with many young people. Despite the few taxis he had seen and made a sign to, none of them has stopped. Another phone started to ring. Looking around, John saw it in a fast-food. It stopped when one of the servers made an attempt to answer the call. The public phone box John walked before two meters further rang as well. John stopped again. Coincidences don't exist, they say. He was curious. And after all, the people who were trying to contact him — if some people were trying to contact him — had made it clear that they were powerful and could follow him, so why run? With those thoughts in mind, John entered the cabine.

"Hello?" he said in the handset.

"There is a security camera on the building to your left," a man said. "Do you see it?" John frowned.

"Who is this?" he asked. "Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, doctor Watson?" John rose his eyes. The white cuve was moving under his eyes.

"Yeah, I see it."

"Watch." The camera swivelled away from the phone box. "Now there's another camera on the building opposite to you. Do you see it?" The camera swivelled as well. "And finally, at the top of the building, on your right." The same thing happened.

"How are you doing this?" John asked nervously. A black car stopped right before him. A man in a suit exited from the passenger seat an opened the back door.

"Get into the car, Doctor Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." The man hang up, leaving John with no choice but to do what he was told.

The woman John was sitting next to was more than attractive. At least, by his standards. She was in her early thirties, had long black hair and was wearing a dress that was perfectly drawing her forms. She was holding a Blackberry in her hand, and didn't look like she was planing on letting it out of her sight anytime soon.

"Hello," John said after a couple of silent minutes.

"Hi," she said, looking at him. Her red glowing lips separated into a smile, revealing white teeth under them. She went back to her phone just a second later, ignoring John again.

"What's your name, then?" John tried.

"Er… Anthea." She kept looking at the phone this time.

"Is that your real name?" John asked. She smiled at him.

"No." John looked around them. He couldn't recognise the building.

"I'm John."

"Yes. I know."

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" It was worth a try.

"Not at all, John."

"Okay." He didn't insist.

A while later, the car arrived in an abandoned warehouse. There were pounds here and there, and the shelves were rare and empty. A man was standing in the middle of it, leaning on his umbrella in a relaxed pose. He was wearing a suit — it seemed that everybody was wearing a suit in those days — and a red tie, all perfectly put in place.

"Have a sit, John," he told the doctor and pointed, with his umbrella, at the chair before him. It was the same voice as the one who had talked to him on the phone.

"You know, I've got a phone," John said, ignoring the chair. "I mean, very clever, and all that, bur er… you could have just phone me. On my phone." John stopped before the man. Like Sherlock, he was taller than him.

"When one's avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place," the man said, showing the warehouse with his umbrella. "The leg must be hurting you," he continued with a fake smile. "Sit down." The order was barely hidden under a fake amiable tone.

"I don't wanna sit down," John replied.

"You don't seem very afraid," the man observed without loosing his smile.

"You don't seem very frightening." If he thought John was going to be afraid because of the warehouse, the black car and the suit, he didn't know who was before him. This was _nothing_.

The man chuckled. "Yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest world for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?" In three sentences, the man had lost is smile and went directly to the reason of the kidnapping.

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him… yesterday." It was the second time John had to answer this question tonight. What was it saying about the man that was Sherlock Holmes? Was it so unusual for him to meet people? Donovan's words came back to his mind. Did Sherlock Holmes really didn't have friends?

"Mmm, and since yesterday, you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" John didn't react.

"Who are you?" he asked instead. The only explanation for the man knowing all this was if he tracked Sherlock's every move. Which was pretty disturbing.

"An interested party."

"Interested in… Sherlock. Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has." Donovan might have been right then. Maybe Sherlock Holmes really didn't have friends. "I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having," the man stated looking down. Was he… embarrassed?

"And what's that?" John asked.

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic." The last statement was said almost absent-mindedly, like when you realise something that you somehow always knew about someone close to you.

John looked around him. "Well, thank god, you're above all that." _Drama Queen_. The man tilted his head and made a face. John's phone beeped. He took it out.

 _Baker Street. Come at once, if convenient._

 _SH_

"I hope I'm not… distracting you."

"You're not distracting me at all," John responded and took his time to put his phone back in his pocket.

"Do you plan to continue you association with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, playing with umbrella.

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"It really couldn't," John affirmed, shaking his head softly.

"If you do move into, hum…" the man said, taking a small notebook out of his inside pocket, "… 221B Baker Street," he read, "I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to… ease your way." He clasped the notebook and put it back in its place.

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"In exchange for… What?" John had his idea about it.

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel… uncomfortable with. Just… Tell what he's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly."

"It's nice of you."

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern goes unmentioned," the man continued, playing with his umbrella and not looking at John. "We have what you might call a… difficult relation ship." John's phone beeped again.

 _If inconvenient, come anyway._

 _SH_

"No," John answered.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother."

The man chuckled again. "You're very loyal, very quickly," he said mockingly.

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

The man lost his smile, as if to show he wasn't playing, and took his notebook out again."Trust issues, it says here." He opened it and look at the scribble.

John gulped and frowned at the notebook. His throat tightened in fear. "What's that?" he managed to say normally safe for the slight worry in his voice.

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, out of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the king to make friends easily," the man continued, still reading the notebook.

"Are we done?" John asked. There was no point in staying if it was to be insulted.

"You tell me…" John tilted his head and gauged the man before him. He turned around. He hadn't made more than three step when the man's voice stopped him.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen." He shook his head. How could he possibly— He turned around and walked back to the man.

"My what?"

"Show me." John took his time to take his decision. A few seconds and he held out his hand before him. But if the other man wanted see, he'll be the one to come closer. And he did, putting the end of his umbrella around his arm and making a move to take John's hand. However, when his fingers were about to brush John's, the army doctor pulled back.

"Don't," John said. The man raised an eyebrow. There was the trust issues. Very slowly, John lowered his hand and let it be examined, as if to show him wrong.

"Remarkable," the man concluded.

"What is?" asked John, taking back his limb.

The man turned and starts to walk slowly. He was in control. "Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield," he said. " You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. She thinks you're _haunted_ by the memories of your military service."

John gulped. He was good. Maybe even as good as Sherlock. And it was… terrifying. In this moment, John thanked his military training. He might be terrified but he could choose to control it and keep thinking. "Who the hell are you? How do you know that?"

"Fire her," the man told him. "She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it." John's jaw was firmly clenched. "Welcome back," the man whispered. He walked away, playing once more with his umbrella but happily this time. "Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson."

At the very same time, John's phone beeped for the third time. John didn't move. He kept looking before him, taking in what had just happened. Behind him, he could hear the heels of not-Anthea on the pavement.

"I'm supposed to take you home," she said, eyes on her phone. John looked at the text he had just received.

 _Could be dangerous._

 _SH_

His hand wasn't trembling. He smiled wryly.

"Address?" Not-Anthea asked.

"Er, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street," John answered, walking to the car. "But I need to stop off somewhere first."

John couldn't believe he was still sleeping in this room this very morning. It seemed like days ago. And far too ordinary. He walked to his desk and took out his gun. He tucked it in the waistband of his jean.

Obviously, Sherlock Holmes could help him and he could help Sherlock Holmes. But it won't be without danger, if what had just happened was anything to go by. Plus, Sherlock Holmes was a mystery in himself. A mystery John Watson was decided to resolve.

When the car stopped before 221B, not-Anthea was still typing away on her phone. "Listen, your boss, any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?" John asked.

"Sure," not-Anthea nodded.

"You've told him already, haven't you?" John deduced.

"Yeah." Of course. John opened the door and was about to leave when he changed his mind. He looked back at not-Anthea.

"Hey, hum… do you get any… free-time?" She laughed.

"Oh, yes. Lots." John fixed her for long seconds before she looked up from her phone. "Bye," she dismissed him.

"Okey," he said, resigned. He got out and knocked three times on the door of 221B.


	8. Texts

When he entered the flat, Sherlock was lying on the sofa in the living room, a pillow under his head. He had a white shirt on, sleeves rolled-up to his elbows. He was breathing deeply and clenching his left fist.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"Nicotine patches," Sherlock answered slowly, showing the rounds on his left arm. "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smocking habit in London these days… Bad news for brain work."

"Good news for breathing," John said, getting closer.

"Breathing's boring."

"Is that… three patched?" John asked, his medical instinct kicking in.

"It's a three-patched problem," Sherlock answered, bringing his hand under his chin in a prayer position.

"Well…" John said, expecting Sherlock to tell him why he was needed. However, the consulting detective kept his eyes closed and stayed silent, as if it was completely normal for John to be here in the middle of the night. "You asked me to come, I'm assuming that's important," he continued before the lack of response.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Oh yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" John repeated.

"Don't want to use mine. There's always a chance that the number will be recognise. It's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson got a phone," John remarked.

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried to shouting but she didn't hear."

"I was on the other side of London," John said, louder than before.

"There was no hurry,' Sherlock said calmly. He felt silent again. John took out his phone angrily and handed it to him.

"Here." Sherlock opened his hand without looking. John glared and snapped the phone in his hand before turning back and shaking his head in annoyance. Sherlock took the phone between his two hands and reverted to his prayer positon, eyes closed.

"So, this is about the case?" John asked. He might be angry but he was still interested.

"Her case…" Sherlock whispered.

" _Her_ case?"

"Her suitcase, yes obviously," Sherlock exclaimed, snapping his eyes open again and looking at the ceiling. "The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"Okay, he took her case," John said. "So?"

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it," Sherlock whispered to himself. John frowned. "On my desk, there's a number," Sherlock continued louder. "I need you to send a text." He held the phone his John's direction.

John made a face. This man was unbelievable. "You brought me here to sent a text," he said to make sure Sherlock wasn't messing with him.

"Text, yes. The number's on the desk," Sherlock repeated, oblivious to the other man's anger. John took a deep breath. He was the one who had chosen to come, after all. He snatched the phone out of Sherlock's hands and looked around for the number. His eyes felt on the window. He couldn't help but look outside to make sure no black car was waiting in the street or any other thriller stereotype.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, noticing his behaviour.

"Just met a friend of yours," John answered lowly, still looking outside.

"A friend?" Sherlock asked, distressed by the word.

"An enemy," John clarified.

Sherlock relaxed. That made more sens. "Oh. Which one?"

John turned to look at him. "Your arch-enemy, according to him," he said. "Do people have arch-enemies?" If they had, John had much more things to catch up then what he previously though. Civilian life wasn't what it used to be, apparently.

Sherlock looked at him. "Did he offered you money to spy on me?" he asked with a lowly, as if it was to be expected.

"Yes," John confirmed.

"Did you take it?"

"No," John said. But at this point, it was more a question than an answer. As if he was asking if he had made the right decision.

"Pity," Sherlock said. "We could have split the fee. Think it through next time." So now, John was an idiot because he hadn't want to spy on the person he had met the day before. Wait. _Next time_. So there will be a next time, then.

"Who is he?" he asked. Might as well know now for future encounters.

"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now," Sherlock answered softly. "On my desk, the number," he reminded John.

The doctor walked to the desk and opened the phone. "Jennifer Wilson," he read on the note. "That was… Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes," Sherlock said in what could be an exasperated voice. "That's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?" His eyes were closed again.

"Yes," John said, slowly entering the numbers one after another.

"Have you done it?"

"Yes, hang on!" John snapped.

"These words, exactly," Sherlock started to dictate. "What happened at Lauriston Garden? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come." John stopped half-way.

"You blacked out?" he asked with concern.

"What?" Sherlock frowned. "No! No!" He threw his long limbs around and was up in a second. He walked straight toward John, not bothering to walk around the coffee table and stepping on it instead. "Type and send it. Quickly."

While John slowly finished his task, Sherlock grabbed the pink suitcase that was waiting on a chair in the kitchen. He came back in the living-room with it. "Have you send it?" he asked John impatiently while taking a chair.

"What's the adress?" John asked.

"22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" Sherlock put the suitcase on the chair before his own black armchair and sat down.

The sound of a zip being pulled open rose John's interest. He looked at Sherlock behind him. His face dropped when he saw the open suitcase. "That's… That's the pink lady case," he observed, starring at Sherlock. "That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock confirmed, his eyes searching between the clothes and other items, long fingers interlaced before his face. He rolled his eyes a second later. "Oh, perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did," John said. Indeed, contrary to one could think, he wasn't considering the man before him as a murderer but was working how the hell he had found the suitcase. And in such a short time.

"Why not?" Sherlock replied. "Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" John couldn't see the man before kill someone. And he had seen people kill and be killed. However, Sherlock smirked and looked proud of himself.

Well, proud of himself… In truth, a look at John's face had told him all that the man was thinking. It was truly refreshing to have someone who didn't immediately thought the worst of him and who, on the contrary, seemed… interested. "Now and then, yes," he answered. He pulled his legs under himself, on the armchair, and sat on the backrest, hands under his chin and eyes on the case, thinking.

"Okay…" John walked to his own armchair, his previous anger forgotten and replaced by a genuine interest. "How did you get these?" he asked as he sat in the confortable seat. If Sherlock was going to deduce, he'd better be seated already. They were both facing each other now, in their respective chair, a small fire between them in the hearth.

"By looking."

"Where?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens," Sherlock started. "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Garden and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink," John said. "You got all that because you deduced the case would be pink." For the hundredth time since seven o'clock today, John could help but admire the other man's genius. He still had a hard time believing it.

"It had to be pink, obviously," Sherlock said as if there wasn't anything more simple in the world.

"Why didn't I think of that?" John asked himself.

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock supplied. John looked up, offended.

"No, no, don't be like that. Practically everyone is." John couldn't tell if Sherlock knew that what he was saying was offending. Probably not. It looked like Sherlock didn't care about any social convention whatsoever. "Now look," Sherlock continued, pointing at the case. "What's missing?"

"From the case? How could I?" John asked. He was, after all, an _idiot_. But he knew Sherlock was about to give him the answer.

"Her phone," Sherlock, indeed, said. "Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one. That's her number there. You just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at home."

"She has a string of lover and she's careful about it," Sherlock said, sitting back normally on the chair. "She never leaves her phone at home." He looked at John, expecting him understand.

John wasn't looking at him, though. "Her phone…" he murmured as things linked in his mind. "Er… Why did I just send that text?" He had a bed feeling about it.

"Well, the question is, where is her phone now," Sherlock helped him.

"She could have lost it."

"Yes. Or…"

"The murdered…" John eventually understood. "You think the murderer has her phone."

"Maybe she… left it when she left her case," Sherlock said. "Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone." John's bad feeling was back.

"Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?" he asked. "What good will that do?" The phone chose this moment to ring. Both men looked at it in silence. The number was withheld.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her," Sherlock said enigmatically. "If somebody had just _found_ that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer… would panic!" He flipped the lid of the suitcase and jumped on his feet, taking his vest and putting it on.

"Have you talked to the police?" John asked. The Detectice — Lestrade — would surely like to be informed.

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to me?" John said. Not that it bothered him. The tremor in his hand had yet to come back. He just… wanted to know. Why _him_?

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull," Sherlock said in a childlike voice as an explanation when he saw the empty spot on the fireplace. He couldn't _say_ he'd like John to come. He put his coat on.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?" John could help the disappointment that tightened his guts.

"Relax, you're doing fine," the consulting detective said, adjusting his coat. The collar was making his sharp cheekbones even more visible. "Well?" he added as John didn't move.

"Well what?"

"Well you could just… Sit here and watch telly," Sherlock said with mid-disgust.

"What? Do you want me to come with you?" John asked in surprise. He wasn't expecting this. He wasn't planning to say yes neither. It had already been a long day.

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud." Sherlock wrapped the blue scarf around his neck. "The skull just attracts attention, so …" John smiled. "Problem?"

"Yes. Sergent Donovan," John said.

"What about her?" Sherlock asked, exasperated. He had already enough time with her to think about her when she wasn't here. Besides, if she had smashed his chances with John Watson, he wouldn't forgive her and probably start to attack, not just defend himself like he was — and had been — doing for the last years. His gust twisted slightly as he waited for John's answer. Was that… worry? It'd be the first time.

"She said… You get off on it. You enjoy it."

Sherlock smiled. Donovan has said exactly what was needed. "And I said dangerous, and here you are." He turned around and disappeared in the stair, knowing John will be following him.

John… John had thought he didn't want to go. Truly. But, dear lord, who was he kidding? Of course he wanted to! "Dammit!" he exclaimed, standing up and catching up on Sherlock.


	9. Run

Despite the late hour, there was still many people in the street. It was, after all, London. It was cold, but not too much. Not enough to be uncomfortable.

"Where are we going?" John asked Sherlock as they turned at around a corner.

"Northumberland Street, a five-minute walk from here," Sherlock answered as he put his black gloves on.

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?" John asked, surprised. Why would a serial killer so talented that the police didn't even suspect a serial killer at first would fall into this simple trap?

"No, I think he's brilliant enough," Sherlock said with a smile. What was happening was clearly making him happy. It didn't bother John, even though he knew it should have. "I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught." This man definitely had a thing for serial killers.

"Why?" John wondered.

"Appreciation. Applause. At long last, the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience."

"Yeah." No kidding. If his role wasn't already clear before, it was now. Oh god, he enjoyed it. Though, he wondered if Sherlock could see the parallel between what he was saying, and what he was doing. Donovan's words reminded themselves to John, once more. _One day, just showing off won't be enough._

"This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think!" Sherlock closed his eyes and put his hands on each side of his head, as if to help him concentrate. "Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"Don't know. Who?" John asked.

"Haven't the faintest. Hungry?" Sherlock headed to the other side of the road and walked into a small restaurant named _Angelo's_ , John right behind him. "Hello, Billy," Sherlock greeted the server who directed them at the nearest table, just before the window, and took off the _Reserved_ sign. It was a nice small restaurant, one where John could have a date in. In fact, he could see a few couples in the back.

Sherlock took off his coat and scarf, staring at the street for any sign of their serial killer. "22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it." John sat as well, his back to the window.

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad," he said.

"He has killed four people," Sherlock objected.

"Okay…" A tall, huge man with a ponytail and a tail came to them. _The manager_ , John's mind supplied.

"Sherlock," he greeted the smiling detective, shaking his hand. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you a nd for your date," he added, handing them the menu.

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked John who ignored him.

"I'm not his date," he told Angelo instead.

"This man got me off a murder charge," Angelo said as if John hadn't talked at all. John had probably met more criminals and policemen today than in his entire life. _Yes_ , the army and the police are different.

"This is Angelo," Sherlock said, still looking outside, as John and Angelo shook hands. "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name," Angelo continued.

"I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing," Angelo answered before looking back to John. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison."

"I'll get a candle for the table," Angelo said, ignoring Sherlock's comment. "It's more romantic.

"I'm not his date," John said again in a defensive tone.

Sherlock pushed his menu away. "You may as well eat. We might have a long wait." Angelo came back with the candle and gives John a thumbs-up.

"Thank's…" John breathed out, not-even bothering anymore. A confortable silence fell, only broken by John's chewing.

He took this opportunity to think about all that had happened during the last hours. God, he couldn't believe his last session with Ella had been… yesterday. Yesterday, when life was still dull and grey, like a simple routine to often repeated. But today… Today had been full. Animated. Coloured. The anxious waiting before meeting Sherlock at 221B, hoping he wasn't going to screw up the opportunity to leave his room. The travel to the crime scene, when Sherlock had explained how he knew so much about him, more than anyone else really, just by _looking_. The warehouse — this one was still surreal to him. How Sherlock Holmes had bring him along to solve a murder. Not only solve a murder but also stop a serial killer. God, it felt like John was in a bloody action movie.

And then, there was the mystery of Sherlock Holmes. A genius. Of course, a genius. But quite blind, too, John realised. Oblivious to things like tact and sentiments and yet, very aware of the social norms. A man we didn't have friends but _archenemies_. John didn't want to think what the fact that this was the man who made him feel… _him_ again said about him and the sort of person he was. Nor about how he felt reassured by the soft pressure of the pistol in his back.

"People don't have archenemy," he eventually told Sherlock who was still looking outside, after weighting the pro and cons.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock said. He had been too focused on what was happening in the street to pay attention to John.

"In real life," John explained. "There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull," Sherlock said, still watching the street.

"So who did I meet?"

"What do real people have then, in their 'real lives'?" Sherlock avoided answering John's question. Fine then, i f he wanted to talk about this…

"Friends." John felt a bit stupid saying the obvious. "People they know, people they like, people they dont' like." He paused before continuing in a lower voice without looking at Sherlock anymore. "Girlfriends, boyfriends,…"

"Yes, well, as I was saying, _dull_ ," Sherlock repeated.

"You don't have a girlfriend then?" John hoped he wasn't going to far. Like he said, they only met _yesterday_.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area." Oh. _Oh_.

"Alright," John said thinking. Shall he… Yes. "Do you have a boyfriend?" Sherlock turned his head to look at him this time. "Which is fine, by the way," John added.

"I know it's fine," Sherlock said. John smiled a bit. Sherlock might have a normal relationship with someone, after all. No one could be _that_ isolated.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No."

"Right. Okay." John licked his lips. "You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good." He coughed. God, he was being awkward. He stared at his plate, hoping Sherlock would forget about the conversation. He wasn't so lucky. Indeed, Sherlock was looking at the street but his mind was replaying John's statement, surprise and suspicion written all over his face.

"John, hum…" he started to babble. "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and, while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any…"

John shook his head and coughed. Awkward. "No," he stopped Sherlock. "I'm not asking…No. I'm just saying, it's all fine." And truly wasn't trying to ask his new flatmate out. He was just trying to make conversation, wasn't he? Yes. He was.

"Good. Thank you," Sherlock nodded, ending the subject. John looked away with big eyes. This had to be one of the wildest conversation of his life.

"Look across the street. Taxi," Sherlock said. John turned. "It stopped. Nobody getting in. Nobody getting out. Why a taxi?" he thought out loud. "Oh that's clever! Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"That's him?" John asked, looking at the black cab outside.

"Don't stare."

"You're staring."

"We can't both stare," Sherlock said, getting up, his coat in one hand. John hurried behind him without a look to his still full plate or even to the medical walking stick he had put next to him. Outside, Sherlock had put on his coat and scarf and was looking at the caucasian male in the suspicious cab. The cab that started to leave.

Without thinking, Sherlock took off. The red car on the road stopped just in time. He slid on the bonnet, letting John apologise for him. "I got the car number," the doctor said once he had stopped next to Sherlock as the cab disappeared in the streets.

"Good fo you." Sherlock closed his eyes. Focus. "Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights." The route clear in his mind, he took off again, John right behind. They ran between the flats, Sherlock pushing people out of his way, John apologising for him. They rushed upstair. They rushed downstairs. They jumped from one rooftop to another, with Sherlock constant encouragements pushing John to go on. They missed the cab once, but it wasn't enough for Sherlock to give up. They ran one way and the other, slalomed between walkers and took small, dark alleys, adrenaline pumping through their veins, the thrill of the hunt.

In the end, Sherlock jumped in front of the car, taking an ID card out of his coat and showing to the driver, shouting "Police! Open her up!" One look at the confused passenger told him he was wrong. "No. Teeth, tan,… What? Californian? LA, Santa Monica. Just arrived."

"How could you possibly know?" John asked, still panting.

"The luggage," Sherlock pointed. "Er, probably your first trip to London, right," he told the passenger. "Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

"Sorry, are you guys the police?" the man asked.

"Yeah," Sherlock lied, showing the ID. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah," the passenger said, smiling.

"Welcome to London," Sherlock said with a nod before walking away.

John stepped closer. "Er, any problem, just let us know," he told the traveler before closing the door and catching up with Sherlock. "Basically, just a cab that happened to slow down," he concluded. They were both still panting from the run.

"Basically," Sherlock confirmed.

"Not the murderer," John continued.

"Not the murderer, no."

"Wrong country, good alibi."

"As they go." Sherlock looked around. He was still holding the ID in his hand.

"Hey, where— Where did you get this?" John asked, looking at it closer. "It's Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying." Sherlock didn't sound remorseful at all. "You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat." That was the last straw. John couldn't held back his laugh anymore. "What?" Sherlock asked. He couldn't see what was funny.

"Nothing, just er… 'Welcome to London'". Sherlock chuckled. It had been quite a nice evening for both of them. Not far away, the Californian was talking to a policeman and pointing at the two friends.

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked John, looking at them.

"Ready when you are." They took off, Sherlock quicker, leading the way, and John not far behind.


	10. Drugs and Answers

Back in 221B, John, his breath ragged, hang his jacket on a hook while Sherlock simply put his coat on the stair's handrail.

"That was ridiculous," the doctor panted. They were both leaning on the wall, side by side, their breath slowly going back to normal. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"You invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock corrected him, making them both laugh.

"That wasn't just me," John remarked. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"Oh, they can keep an eye out," Sherlock dismissed. "It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?" John inquired. There had to be another reason.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Oh, just passing the time… and proving a point."

"What point?"

"You," Sherlock simply answered. " !" he called. "Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs." He looked at John, as if to playfully dare him to say otherwise.

"Says who?" John asked.

"Says the man at the door," Sherlock said, looking at it. Indeed, someone knocked at this very moment, making his lips curve into a smile. As John went to open it, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It had been…wonderful. It had been his best night since a long, very long, time. It felt like a dream. Unbelievable.

John frowned when he saw Angelo behind the door.

"Sherlock texted me," he answered John's silent question. He held out the medical stick. "He said you forgot this."

"Oh." John took it and looked at Sherlock, inside. The clever bastard was grinning at him. "Thank you. Thank you," he told Angelo before going back inside. He was about to say something to Sherlock when Mrs. Hudson walked in the entrance, looking all worried and upset.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" she asked them.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Upstairs," she indicated. Not waiting any longer, Sherlock and John rushed to see what was happening.

Sherlock opened the door on Lestrade, comfortably installed in his armchair, the pink suitcase jut next to him. He had something to control the genius and he was going to enjoy it. Other officers were looking through the books and other items, searching for something. "What are you doing?" Sherlock asked angrily, standing right before him. It had been such a wonderful evening…

"Well, I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid," Lestrade answered.

"You can't just break into my flat!" Sherlock replied.

"You can't withhold evidence," Lestrade retorted. "And I didn't break in your flat."

"Well, what do you call this, then?" Sherlock half-shouted. Lestrade looked around.

"It's a drug bust!" he exclaimed.

John chuckled behind Sherlock. "Seriously?" he asked. "This guy? A junky? Have you met him?" Lestrade didn't loose his smile but Sherlock spun around and walked closer to him.

"John."

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational," John continued. The man he had met wasn't the kind to use those things. Why would he need it?

"John, you probably want to shut up now," Sherlock insisted.

"Yeah but, come on…" His eyes met Sherlock's. Not him!

"No," John said out loud, disbelieving. "You?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock said angrily. He couldn't help it. This night, with John, had been great. Really great. Especially since, not less than a week ago, he was still… Anyway. Let's say that the roof scene with Lestrade was still cleat in his head. He didn't want to lose John. To _lose_ John? What was happening? And since when did he care about what people thought about him? "I'm not your sniffer-dog," he told Lestrade, trying to chase those thoughts.

"No, Anderson's my sniffer-dog," Lestrade said, tilting his head toward the kitchen.

"What? And—" Sherlock stopped as Anderson made himself visible and waved at him with his latex-covered hand with a small smug look. "Anderson, what are _you_ doing here on a drugs bust?" Sherlock exclaimed, feeling utterly violated.

"Oh, I volunteered," Anderson answered, raising his eyebrow. Was he trying to look menacing? Sherlock started to pace angrily like a lion in cage.

"They all did," Lestrade continued. "They're not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

As if it wasn't enough, Donovan had to be here too. "Are these human eyes?" she asked, coming from the kitchen with a glass jar.

"Put those back!" Sherlock told her, making wide gestures with his arms and hands. He felt trapped in his own place.

"They were in the microwave!"

"It's an _experiment_ ," Sherlock told her bitterly.

"Keep looking guys," Lestrade called out. The more they found, the more Sherlock would be agreeable. "Or you could help us properly and I'll stand them down," he told Sherlock who was still pacing like a wild animal.

"This is childish," he said.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child," Lestrade observed. "Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in but you do not go off on your own. Clear?" He was really trying to make the younger man understand his point. It wasn't a game. There were real people out there, who could hurt or killed. _Sherlock_ could be hurt or killed, and Lestrade had sworn he wouldn't let this happen. Not on his watch. And if he needed to organise drug bust to make this thick head understand, then be it.

"Oh, so what? So-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?" Sherlock was loosing it. He had left bullies behind him when he had left college. And t here were too many people who shouldn't be here. This wasn't right. This was… This was…

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," Lestrade threatened.

"I am clean!" Sherlock shouted.

"Is your flat?" Lestrade asked smugly. "All of it?"

"I don't even smoke." Sherlock unbuttoned and rolled-up his sleeve to show the nicotine patch on his arm.

"Neither do I." Lestrade did the same with his right arm. "So let's work together." Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his sleeve back down. "We found Rachel," Lestrade offered. Maybe he'll be more successful if he made the first step. Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Rachel? Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter," Lestrade answered.

"Her daughter?" Sherlock said, frowning. It didn't make any sens. "Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind that," Anderson exclaimed from the kitchen, pointing at the pink suitcase. "We found the case! According to _someone_ , the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research," Sherlock snapped before looking back at Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. _I_ need to question her."

"She's dead," Lestrade told him.

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed. John wouldn't have chose this word exactly. Yesterday, he would probably have punched Sherlock right in the face for saying that. "How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be."

"Well, I doubt it since she's been dead for fourteen years," Lestrade calmed him down. "Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

"No, it's… That's not right…How…" Sherlock mumbled. "Why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments," Anderson said. "Yep, sociopath. I'm seeing it now." John resisted the urge to shut him down. Sherlock didn't need him to. Exasperated, he turned toward the idiot.

"She didn't _think_ about her daughter," he told the scientist. "She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt." He went back to pacing, thoughts circling in his mind.

"You said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it," John remembered. "Well, maybe, he… I don't know… Talks to them… Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.."

"Yes but that was ages ago," Sherlock told him. "Why would she still be upset?" The flat fell silent. John stared at him. Sherlock, realising he had said something to… _sociopathic,_ fidgeted awkwardly. It was like a child who had made a mistake and was afraid of being punished. "Not good?" he asked John lowly, glancing at the silent people around him.

John looked around as well. "Bit not good, yeah," he answered. Sherlock shook and stepped closer to John, the flat still silent around them.

"Yeah but if you were dying, if you had been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?" he asked the army doctor. John's guts tightened. He looked down.

"Please, god. Let me live."

"Oh, use your imagination!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"I don't have to." Sherlock blinked, remembering who was before him. John could see the apologise and confusion in his blue eyes, even though he didn't express them out loud.

Sherlock didn't have time for… sentiments. He chase the disgusting word away. Back to the case. "Yeah but if you were clever, really clever… Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers, she was clever. She's trying to tell us something!" He started to walk back and forth between Lestrade and John.

Mrs. Hudson chose this moment to enter. "Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock," she said, looking at the messy living room.

"I didn't order a taxi, go away!" Sherlock shooed her. John was… startled. It didn't seem right for Sherlock to talk like this to Mrs. Hudson. He was really preoccupied then.

"Oh, dear. They're making such a mess," Mrs. Hudson said, not hurt by Sherlock's words. "What are they looking for?" Sherlock was still pacing, each time faster, having more and more difficulties to concentrate.

"It's a drug bust, Mrs. Hudson," he heard John answer. The answer was just there. He just had to…

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers," Mrs. Hudson said. Back to the door, Sherlock stopped.

"Shut up, everybody, shut up!" he shouted. They all, looked at him, a bit surprised. "Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe! I'm trying to think! Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off!"

"What?" Anderson exclaimed. "My face is?"

"Everybody, quiet and still," Lestrade ordered. "Anderson, turn your back." If Sherlock needed it to solve the case, Lestrade was ready to personally escort Anderson outside, no matter how many shouts and kicks he would receive.

"Oh for god's sake!"

"Get back! Now! Please," Lestrade insisted. Anderson eventually complied. John scratched his head and sat in his armchair, waiting for Sherlock to have a revelation.

"Come on, think, quick!" the genius was muttering to himself as he paced between the furnitures.

"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson dared to ask.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted. She went back and hurried downstairs. Sherlock froze.

"Oh! Oh… She was clever, clever, yes," he exclaimed with a huge smile. He started to walk again. "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked.

"What do you mean 'how'?" Sherlock stopped. The Detective-Inspector shrugged.

"Rachel!" Sherlock said as if it was the answer to everything. He received empty looks. "Don't you see? Rachel! Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be _so_ relaxing," he added condescendingly when he realised no one was getting his point. John shook his head slightly as his friend insulted the whole of Scotland Yard. "Rachel is not a name!"

"Then what is it?" John asked harshly before Sherlock could say anything worst.

"John, on the luggage, there's a label. Email address." Sherlock sat before his laptop, ready to type.

"Er, .uk." John read.

"Oh, I've been too slow," Sherlock muttered as he started to type on the Metaphone website. "She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled. So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address and all together now, the password is?"

"Rachel," John said as he paused behind Sherlock, eyes on the screen.

"So we can read her e-mails. So what?" Anderson said in the kitchen. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud," he told the man. "You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade objected.

"We know he didn't," John assured him. That was why he had sent the text earlier, wasn't it?

"Come on, come on! Quickly!" Sherlock shouted at the charging window. Mrs. Hudson was coming back upstairs, slightly worried.

"Sherlock, dear," she said, "This taxi driver…" Before she could finish, Sherlock stood up and turned to face her. John took his place before the laptop.

"Mrs Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He asked her before turning to Lestrade. "We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last for ever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name," Lestrade calmed him down.

"It's a start!"

On the laptop, the map was zooming on the phone's location. "Sherlock?" John called.

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London," Sherlock continued. "It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock?" John repeated worriedly.

"What is it? Quickly, where?" The consultive detective bent next to John to get a closer look. The blue dot was on Baker Street.

"It's here," John said. "It's in 221 Baker Street." Sherlock rose his head and tensed.

"How can it be here?" he murmured. " _How?_ "

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it… Fell out, somewhere," Lestrade supplied, not really believing it.

"What, and I didn't notice it?" Sherlock said, confused, looking at the flat around him. " _Me_? I didn't notice?"

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," John told Lestrade. The Detective sighed.

"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim …" he shouted to his colleagues.

Sherlock focused. How could the phone be here? Why? How? _Who do we trust, even if we don't know them?_ His eyes fell on the man who had stopped behind Mrs. Hudson. A cap was hiding his face and he was wearing a grey cardigan. Around his neck, a badge was reading _London Cab Driver_. Sherlock frowned.

 _Who passed, unnoticed, wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of the crowd?_ Of course. Just as he reached his conclusion, his phone beeped.

 _Come with me._

The stranger turned around and started to walk downstairs slowly.

"Sherlock, you're okay?" John said behind him.

"What? Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," Sherlock answered, distractedly.

"So, how can the phone be here?" John asked him.

"Don't know," he lied, eyes still on the empty spot where the driver had been just seconds before.

"I'll try it again," John announced, grabbing his own phone.

"Good idea," Sherlock said, calmly heading to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long." John frowned. He could feel that something was off.

"You're sure you're alright?

"I'm fine," he answered from the staircase where he disappeared.


	11. Talking

When Sherlock got out, his coat and scarf put on and his gloves in his hands, the driver was leaning on his cab, waiting for him. He wasn't unordinary. An old you could walk pass in the street without envisaging at any point that he was capable to kill.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock closed the door. "I didn't order a taxi."

"Doesn't mean you don't need one," the driver retorted.

"You're the cabbie," Sherlock stated. "The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you. Not your passenger."

"See, no one ever thinks about the cabbie," the man explained. "It's like your invisible. Just the back of a head. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

Sherlock stepped closer. "Is this a confession?" he asked, glancing at his flat's window where a considerable amount of police officers were.

"Oh yeah," the driver confirmed. "And I'll tell you what else, if you call the copers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?"

"Cause you're not gonna do that."

"Am I not?" Sherlock rose his eyebrows.

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes," the driver said. "I spoke to them. And they killed themselves. And if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing. I will never tell you what I said." The driver knew he had Sherlock Holmes. How could a genius like him resist the appeal, the thrill, of what he was offering.

Sherlock considered the proposition silently. "No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result," he told the driver who was already walking to his seat.

He stopped. "And you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?" He took place behind the wheel.

Sherlock didn't answer. He pinched his lips and looked at the window again. It could be dangerous. He bent his knew and looked at the driver through the half-opened window. "If I wanter to understand, what would I do?"

"Let me take you for a drive."

"So you can kill me too?"

"I don't wanna kill you, Mr. Holmes. I'm gonna talk to you, and then you're gonna kill yourself."

Sherlock straightened. The appeal… The answer… The danger… He couldn't help himself. He was lost. He was an addict. Besides, John would saw him leave. He would have back up.

The driver smiled in satisfaction as the door opened behind him and someone got in. He started the car.

* * *

Upstairs, John was looking at what was happening in the street, his phone held to his hear. He couldn't believe it. "He just got in the cab." He turned to Lestrade. "It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab."

"I told you, he does that," Donovan, who had been talking to Lestrade, said. "He bloody lest again." She spun around and walked to the rest of her colleagues. "We're wasting our time." Lestrade looked at John for answers.

"I'm calling the phone," the doctor said. "It's ringing out." They listened but no phone started to rang.

"If it's ringing, it's not here," Lestrade stated.

John hang up and walked back to the laptop. "I'll try to search again."

Donovan came back. "Does it matter? Does any of it?" she asked Lestrade, her chin up defiantly. "He's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down and you're wasting your time. All our time." As if she hadn't asked to be part of the drug burst. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Lestrade sighed.

"Okay everybody, we're done here," he gave in. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" he asked John once all the officers were busy taking back their stuff and going outside.

John shrugged. "You know him better than I do," he told the detective. He was standing in a military way, hand in his back, head up.

"I've know him for five years and no, I don't," Lestrade said, putting his grey coat on.

"So why do you put up with him?" John inquired. It couldn't be because Sherlock was indispensable to the police, could it?

"Because I'm desperate. That's why," Lestrade answered as he headed to the door. He paused. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very very lucky, he might be a good one."

The police was already gone for a few minute when John's second search completed. He had been grabbing the walking stick — he had almost forgotten about it — and was about to leave and go back home — he had yet to move in — when the laptop beeped. John stopped and turned. He put the stick aside and grabbed the device. Without loosing any second, he rushed downstairs, the walking stick now completely forgotten.

* * *

Back in the car, the pink phone rang, but no one answered. Sherlock managed to refrain the satisfied smirk that was taunting his lips. Instead, London was passing behind the window.

"How did you find me?" he asked.

"Oh, I recognised you. As soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes. I was warned about you. I've been on your website too. Brilliant stuff! Love it!"

"Who warned you about me?" Sherlock asked. Somehow, the praise of a serial killer weren't even half as good as John's.

"Just someone out here who's noticed you.

"Who?" Sherlock inquired, leaning forward. It was becoming more and more interesting. "Who would notice _me_?"

"You're too modest, Mr. Holmes," the cabbie said, looking in the rear-view mirror.

"I'm really not."

"You've got yourself a fan," the cabbie breathed.

"Tell me more," Sherlock said, sounding only mildly interested.

"That's all you're gonna know. In this lifetime." They stayed silent for the rest of the drive.

Eventually, the cab stopped before two twin building. The cabbies turned off the car and got out to open Sherlock's door.

"Where are we?" the consulting detective asked.

"You know every street of London. You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?"

"It's opened," the cabby shrugged. "Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie, you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

"And you just walk your victims in? How?" The cabbie pointed a pistol at his passenger.

"Oh, dull," Sherlock said, disappointed.

"Don't worry. It gets better."

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint," Sherlock responded.

"I don't. It's much better than that. Don't need this with you." He lowered the pistol. "Cause you'll follow me." He turned around and headed to the right building. Sherlock grumbled, tired of himself, and followed.

The cabbie led him to a vast classroom with large wood tables and black uncomfortable chairs. "Well, what do you think?" Sherlock looked around, not really interested as to _where_ they were, and shrugged. "It's up to you," the cabbie continued. "You're the one who's gonna die here."

Sherlock turned and looked at him. "No I'm not."

"That's what they all say. Should we talk?" He pulled out the nearest chair and sat. Sherlock did as well with a sight.

"Bit risky, wasn't it?" he asked once they were facing each other. He took off his gloves and put them in his pocket. He liked the feeling of his fingers agains each other when he had to concentrate. "Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not _that_ stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you."

"You call that a risk? Nah. _This_ is a risk." The cabbie took a small glass bottle out of his pocket and placed it between them. A white pill with brownish points was waiting in it. "Ooh, I like this bit," he added at Sherlock's lack of reaction. "Cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this." He placed an identical bottle with an identical pill next to the first one. "Weren't expecting that, were you? Oh you're gonna love this."

"Love what?" Sherlock replied. For now, there wasn't anything interesting. On the contrary, the case seemed more and more ordinary with each minute.

"Sherlock Holmes, look at you! Here in the flesh. That website of yours… Your fan told me about that!"

"My _fan?_ " Sherlock repeated.

"You're brilliant," the cabbie continued. "You are a proper genius. 'The Science of Deduction'. Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting here, why can't people think? Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?"

Sherlock squinted. "Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius too!" he said sarcastically.

"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man driving a cab." His word were tinted with an old blurry anger. "But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know." Here it was, the need of an audience. And what better audience than another genius? And what better genius than Sherlock Holmes when you were as serial killer.

"Okay, two bottles. Explain," Sherlock complied.

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."

"Both bottles are of course identical."

"In every way."

"And you know which is which."

"Of course, _I_ know."

"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game if _you_ knew. You're the one who chooses."

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?" Sherlock asked.

"I haven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one, and then, together, we take our medicine." Sherlock smiled. It was getting better. "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." Sherlock looked at the pills, started to try and identify them. "Didn't expect that, did you, Mr Holmes?"

"This is what you did to the rest of them," Sherlock assumed, quite correctly. "You gave them a choice."

"And now I'm giving you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game."

"It's not a game, it's chance," Sherlock retorted.

"I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. Holmes. It's _chess_. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this ... this ... is the move." He pushed the left bottle toward his futur victim. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one." Minutes passed.

* * *

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I _need_ to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency!" John was talking hurriedly in his phone, in a cab. The computer was on his laps, the Metaphore website showing where the pink phone — and therefore Sherlock — was. "Er, left here, please. Left here."


	12. Let's play

"You're ready yet, Mr. Holmes?" Their eyes met.

"Play what? It's a fifty-fifty chance."

"You're not playing the numbers, you're playing me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a _triple_ -bluff?"

Text-book. The need to install a superiority. To know who was the smartest. And the solution was, of course, not to enter the game. "Still just chance."

"Four people in a row? It's not just chance."

"Luck."

"It's genius. I know how people think." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know how people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid, even you." Sherlock's exasperated expression morphed into something else. "Or maybe God just loves me."

Sherlock leaned on the table. "Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie." He had to buy time for John. He should arrive soon. "So," he continued, clasping his hands before his face, starring intensely at the cabbie, "you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?"

"Time to play."

Sherlock moved into his prayer position. "Oh, I _am_ playing. This is my turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own. There's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children in your car. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them." At the mention of his children, sadness flashed in his eyes. "Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it _still_ hurts. Ah, but there's more! Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?" Sherlock lost his grin. "Ahh! Three years ago. Is that when they told you?"

"Told me what?"

"That you're a dead man walking."

"So are you."

"You don't have long, though." Sherlock frowned. "Am I right?"

"Aneurism," the cabbie answered with a smile. "Right here." He tapped on his head. Any breath could be my last."

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people…" Sherlock had a hard time seing the link between the two facts.

"I've outlived four people. That's the most fun you can have on an aneurism."

"No! No, there's something else," Sherlock said, thinking. "You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children."

The cabbie looked down. "Oh… You are good, aren't you?" He nodded at Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, wasn't finished. He was like a hunting wolf, only letting his prey alone once there wasn't anything more to take. "But _how_?"

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids," he answered under Sherlock's predatory stare. "Not a lot of money in driving cabs."

"Or serial killing," Sherlock added.

"You'd be surprised."

"Surprise me."

"I have a sponsor."

"You have a what?"

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think."

"Who would sponsor a serial killer?"

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes? You're not the only one who enjoys a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man ... and they're so much more than that."

"What do you mean _more_ than a man? An organisation? What?" He needed to know. That was far more interesting than their current little game. Someone — or something — interested in _him_

"There's a name no-one says, and I'm not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter." He tilted his head toward the bottle. "Time to choose."

* * *

John was standing before two buildings, both exactly identical. He had to move quickly. He entered one and ran through the corridors, calling for his friend. No answer came. God, he'd better not be to late. He wasn't about to lose everything. Not again. The doors he tried to open were locked. He kept looking.

* * *

"What if I don't choose either?" Sherlock asked. "I could just walk out of here."

The cabbie sighed with exasperation and pointed his pistol at the consulting detective once more. "You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head." Sherlock smiled knowingly. "Funny enough, no one ever goes for that option."

"I'll have the gun, please."

"Are you sure?"

There was no sign of fear nor doubt on Sherlock's face when he answered. "Definitely. The gun."

"You don't want to phone a friend?"

"The gun." The cabbie pulled the trigger. A small flame burst where the bullet should have exited. Sherlock smiled. "I know a real gun when I see one."

The killer looked surprised. "None of the others did."

"Clearly. Well, this has been… _very_ interesting. I look forward to the court case," Sherlock said mockingly as he stood up. He was, after all, a master at chess.

He was at the door when the cabbie's voice stopped him. "Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one is the good bottle?"

"Of course. Child's play."

"Well, which one, then?" Sherlock pushed the door slightly open. "Which one would you have picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?" He closed the door. "Come on," the cabbie chuckled. "Play the game."

He had already won. Why not keep going? Why not… have some fun? And compete with someone whose intellect was just a bit higher than the common wealth. Sherlock walked back slowly to the table. He snatched the closest bottle to the cabbie and played with it in his hands, turning it over and over again.

"Oh… Interesting," the cabbie said as he took the other one. He let the pill drop in his palm and took it between two fingers. "So what do you think? Shall we? Really… What do you think? Can you beat me?" He stepped closer to Sherlock. "Are you clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you, so clever. But what's the point of being clever, if you can't prove it. "

The words were circling in Sherlock's head. The other man wasn't wrong. How many time had he wanted something interesting to happen. How many time had he wanted something challenging enough for is mine. How many time had he wanted the boring, boring world and its stupid people to disappear? Without realising it, Sherlock had opened the bottle. He was now holding the pill into the light, examining it again. He could feel the envy, the _need_. It had been a long time since he had last taken anything… 'recreational', despite Lestrade's drug bursts seemed to indicate. He _wanted_ it. His pupils were dilated. The thrill of a life or death situation. His mind was finally clear, focus on one single problem. One single pill.

"Still the addict. But _this_ , this is what you're truly addicted to, isn't it. You'd do anything… Anything at all… To stop being bored." His fingers shaking, Sherlock moved the pill closer to his lips. He was disgusted by himself for doing so but he simply couldn't stop. The promise of an escape. The sensation that will take him… It wasn't about being clever anymore.

"You're not bored now, are you?" Both men were now about to crush the pills under the teeth. "Isn't it goo—" The cabbie didn't have time to end his sentence has bullet went through his torso.

* * *

John was desperate. Sherlock was no-where to be found. All the rooms and corridors he had gone through were empty and the one he was in wasn't different. Except… Except that, behind the huge window, he could see two people facing each other in the opposite building. One of them, tall with black curly hair and a long coat, had to be Sherlock. The other one, smaller and older, was the murderer, then. There was no time to waist.

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted. The scene that was unfolding under his eyes was a nightmare. He could see the pill inches away from Sherlock's lips. He had no other choice. He armed his gun.

* * *

The loud noise had taken Sherlock out of his trans and made him let go off the pill. He turned to the window where the shot had come from. There was a perfect bullet hole in the glass. It had come from the other building. A professional. The cabbie coughed behind him. A pool of blood had already formed on the floor. Snatching up the pill, Sherlock held it before his face.

"Was I right?" The cabbie didn't answer. "Did I get it right?" Sherlock urged. No answer. The young man angrily threw the pill away and stood up on his feet. "Okay," he said, a bit breathless and looked down at the dying man. "Tell me this, your sponsor, who was it? The one who told you about me. My 'fan'. I want a name."

"No," the cabbie managed to say.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name." The cabbie shook his head. Sherlock stepped on his shoulder, causing a cry of pain. He didn't like it but it was the only way to have answers. "A name! Now!" He pushed harder. "A name!"

"Moriarty!" the man cried out. Sherlock stepped back. The man was dead. He looked around, as if just now remembering where he was, and mouthed the word 'Moriarty' silently. That was the beginning of a much longer game of chess.


	13. Two men

There were police cars and officers everywhere. Sherlock was waiting, seated at the back of an ambulance. Someone put an orange shock blanket on his shoulders.

"Why have I got this blanket?" he asked Lestrade who was coming over. "They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yes, it's for shock," the Detective-Inspector said.

"I'm not in _shock_ ," Sherlock retorted, offended.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs." Besides, in Lestrade's opinion, he couldn't do Sherlock anything wrong. The guy had just seen a man being shot at. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So the shooter, no sign?" he asked.

"Cleared of before we got here," Lestrade answered. "But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but ... Got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Sherlock objected smugly. Lestrade took a deep breath.

"Okay, give me."

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun," Sherlock started as he stood up. "Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon. That's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service—" His eyes fell on John Watson who was waiting behind the police tape, hands behind his back. "Nerves of steel…" Sherlock frowned. John looked briefly at him, innocently. Was it really… "Actually, do you know what? Ignore me."

"I'm sorry?" Lestrade must have misheard.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking," Sherlock said. He started to walk toward John.

"Where are you going?"

"I just need to, er…talk about the-the rent."

"But I've still got questions for you!"

"Oh, what _now_?" Sherlock exclaimed in irritation. "I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!"

"Sherlock!"

" _And_ , I've just caught you a serial killer. More or less." Lestrade took his time to answer. If Sherlock was asking him to forget what he had deduced, he clearly out of it.

"Okay," he agreed. "We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go." He laughed as Sherlock walked away.

The consulting detective took off his blanket and threw it in a police car before ducking under the tape.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills," John said. "Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful."

Sherlock looked at him. Bad liar. "Good shot," he simply said.

"Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window," John acquiesced.

"Well, you'd know." They stared at each other. "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

John cleared his throat and looked at the amount of policemen around them.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, genuinely worried.

"Yes, of course I'm alright," John assured.

"Well, you have just killed a man."

"Yes, I… " Very bad liar. "That's true, isn't it?" He smiled at Sherlock who was still staring. "But he wasn't a very _nice_ man."

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?" Sherlock said once sure John was all good.

"And a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock laughed. "That's true," he agreed. "He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!" It was John's turn to laugh. They started to leave the scene while unsuccessfully trying to hide their smiles and giggles.

"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle," John said. "It's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him," Sherlock replied as they walked past Donovan. "Don't blame me."

"Keep your voice down!" John told him lowly before speaking to the Sergent. "Sorry, it's just, um, nerves, I think."

"Sorry," Sherlock apologised too.

John stopped and cleared his throat. "You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?" he asked. Sherlock turned around.

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No, you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked.

"Cause you're an idiot," John quoted him, making Sherlock smile once more. He looked away for a second, as if deciding whether or not to ask something.

"Diner?" he eventually said.

"Starving."

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle." John was barely listening to him. He was looking at the black car which had just arrived, and the tall man who had came out of it.

"Sherlock? That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about."

"I know exactly who that is," Sherlock said as they approached the new comer. John looked nervously at the police. At least, they were protected.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ... though that's never really your motivation, is it?" the man told Sherlock.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, obvious wanting to get over this quickly.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'," Sherlock said, pointing John with his head.

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock answered sarcastically.

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy." Mummy? John frowned.

" _I_ upset her? _Me_?" Sherlock said, disbelievingly. "It'wasn't _me_ who upset her, Mycroft!"

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John had to be sure.

"Mother, our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." Mycroft looked embarrassed for a second but John was too shocked to think about it.

"Putting on weight again?" Sherlock attacked.

"Loosing it, in fact."

"He's your _brother_?" John asked. It wasn't possible. The _warehouse_. His _brother_.

"Of course, he's my brother."

"But he's not…" John started. Mycroft looked at him, waiting for the rest.

"Not what?" Sherlock said.

"I dunno. Criminal mastermind?" John frowned as he said it. In the light of what had happened, it didn't sound _too_ strange.

"Close enough," Sherlock answered.

"For goodness' sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He _is_ the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Mycroft sighed. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic." He left his brother behind without a look back.

"So, when-when you say you're concerned about him, you actually _are_ concerned?" John said as an afterthought as he was about to follow Sherlock.

"Yes, of course."

"I mean, it actually _is_ a childish feud?" John said, quoting the warehouse discussion.

"He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah ... " John muttered "No. God, no! I… I'd better, er… Hello again." He hadn't notice not-Anthea was here too.

"Hello," she answered.

"Yes, we-we met earlier on this evening." She clearly didn't remember.

"Oh!"

"Okay, goodnight." John joined Sherlock who had been waiting him a bit further. "So, dim sum." He said as they cross the street. Sherlock sighed.

"Mmm! I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't."

"Almost can. You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?"

"In Afghanistan. There _was_ an actual wound."

"Oh, yeah. Shoulder."

"Shoulder! I thought so…"

"No, you didn't!"

"The left one."

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes, you do."

"What are you so happy about?" John asked, seeing Sherlock's grin.

"Moriarty."

"What's Moriarty?"

"Absolutely no idea…"

Back at the black car, Mycroft Holmes was looking his brother and John Watson disappear in the street with a serious face.

"Sir, shall we go?" not-Anthea asked.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow," Mycroft stated. "He could be the making of my brother – or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active."

"Sorry, sir. Whose status?" she asked, looking up from her phone.

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."


End file.
